


Life Leaks Away

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Angst, Animal Instincts, Animals, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Existential Angst, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Pain, Papyrus (Undertale) Remembers Resets, Undertale Genocide Route, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29703111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: With each new reset Papyrus wakes up with serious migraines—a side effect of the human stomping his skull into dust. Doomfanger doesn't like to see him in pain.
Kudos: 48





	Life Leaks Away

**Author's Note:**

> In headaches and in worry, vaguely life leaks away  
> And Time will have his fancy tomorrow or today

When Papyrus jolted awake, the world was a sparkling, roiling mass of white-hot agony. The child’s—the _demon’s_ laughter still echoed behind his eye sockets, shrilling and splintering. He could still feel their foot perched on the crown of his head, a proclamation of “ _King of the hill_.”

When he pried his lockjaw open for a winded gasp, the only relief it brought was the distant notion that he was no longer choking on his own dust. Following that was a surge of nausea, bitter in his scarred throat. He arched, coughed once, and it felt like one of Undyne’s spears had just plowed through his head. His soul beat was the hammer to drive it further in.

With no memory of how he got there, he found himself in a shivering heap on the floor of his room, curled around the waste bin as he tried to retch.

Nothing would surface; most of the magic he could excrete was leaking into the sweat on his face. It steamed, it _burned_ and he couldn’t blink it away. His eye sockets were raw. The heel of the child’s boot was still lodged in the left, rough, weathered sole grinding into old scars to create new cracks. Prying one hand from the rim of the waste bin, he mashed it against the socket—to shield it, perhaps, or to smear the terrifying sensation away.

Tears bled into his palm, helpless, uncontrollable pulses amidst the stinging shimmer of lights. He couldn’t muster any self-reproach for his weakness, not now.

Although he was no stranger to pain—and certainly not this pain—it seemed to worsen with every go-around. By now his skull was nothing but fragile glass, every loop shattering it into smaller and smaller shards. Whatever headache came out of the pieces was a reflection to remind him:

He was _alive_ again, propped up like a toy soldier to once again wither and die for their amusement. In lieu of a laugh, a desperate wheeze escaped him and the sore bones in his face creaked as he squeezed his eyes shut. This ought to be tedious by now. Why did they continue?

Papyrus had killed more monsters than he cared to count, but the times that he took real pleasure in it were few. More often than not he killed for duty and security…There was power and _protection_ in infamy for himself and for Sans. But this creature went out of their way to step on him while he was down. They cared to revel in his death again and again. _Why?_

Perhaps they thought dying in torture and waking up in torture would be the thing to break him—to prove a point that he and Sans would never be safe. There was nothing worthwhile to his life but suffering.

Perhaps they were right to—

A weighty paw batted at Papyrus’ jawline, swatting the thought into the starry abyss. Though the tap itself didn’t hurt, his resulting flinch at the surprise made the back of his neck seize. He didn’t need to peek out to know that Doomfanger was perched on the edge of the bed in front of him.

When Papyrus gave no indication of reaching out to pet him or finding any words of reassurance, the paw stretched out for a second pat and received a similar lack of response. Doomfanger rumbled, a precursor to a croaky meow. Not for the first time, Papyrus wished he could speak. He would probably say something profound. “ _Another death is in the past, you fool, and you’re wasting precious minutes of your timetabled life on the floor_.”

Shamefacedly he ducked back over the waste bin. He just…needed some more time to breathe.

Doomfanger meowed again, tail curling across the bedsheets that hadn’t been dragged off by his master’s fall. He watched closely.

He was not a simpleminded cat; he had an idea of what was happening here. He had seen more of Master’s pain and brokenness than even Master’s brother. He was Master’s only company when he and his brother fought, when he slammed his bedroom door shut and all of the anger sank off his face under sorrow and disappointment. Doomfanger often wondered how the brother’s attitude would change if he could witness that.

Sometimes Doomfanger’s fur had old dust in it from Master’s hands petting him; sometimes the most miniscule particles lingered, no matter how Papyrus had tried to get it off.

And sometimes, in privacy and secrecy between them, Master crumbled like this. Worse than the dust were the times that Master’s tears dampened Doomfanger’s coat. Seeing his anguish again now, on what seemed like a perfectly normal morning…It was decidedly _not right_. Doomfanger couldn’t do much about the source of the problem, whatever it may be, but he could lend a helping paw here. It was the least he could offer.

Papyrus tensed and shuddered as a barbed tongue swept a stripe up his face, followed by a decisive nuzzling of whiskered cheek on cheekbone. Doomfanger’s twitchy ear tickled his nasal ridge as it flicked, but Papyrus found himself unresisting.

It certainly didn’t expunge the pain to have the cat bunt his aching head, but it was kinder than the child’s boot. Doomfanger’s face was soft and his purr low in his throat, a deep, consistent rattle to break through the ringing in Papyrus’ nonexistent ears. Sighing shakily, he curled the fingers of his free hand into the thick fur at Doomfanger’s shoulders.

This—warmth, companionship, a _want_ for him—was just as real as death.

What was Doomfanger’s fate after Papyrus was gone? Did anyone think to come and fetch him, take him along with the rest of the refugees? Did anyone care?

The tears were budding again.

Doomfanger didn’t mind. Eyes half closed, he gladly accepted his master’s trembling strokes down his back and continued to purr.


End file.
